


So Simple In The Moonlight

by orphan_account



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Bystander Death, Childhood Trauma, Conspiracies, Cult, Found Family, Government Schemes, M/M, Mild to Severe Injuries, Multi, Other, Police Officer Roman, Prinxiety - Freeform, Prostitution, Punk Rock Government Hatred, Slow Burn, Slurs, Violence, Waiter Patton, Wayward Politicians, edgy backstories, logicality - Freeform, past death, politician logan
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-03
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:41:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23992483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Virgil Cloud is a rude, snarky, angry, traumatized prostitute with a heavy past. He's a witness to something important, something he wasn't supposed to see, and is then given shelter by a reckless police officer, Roman Prince. Trying to keep a man with connections out of power and uncover an underground cult working its way to power throughout Queens and all of New York City is tougher than it looks. Logan Maconell is constantly a step behind the mystery of his rival politician's success until a rookie cop has leads that force them to team up, but its hard when Patton Prince, Roman's cousin, is so awfully pretty and around all the fucking time.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders, Logic | Logan Sanders/Morality | Patton Sanders
Comments: 15
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I'm back from quite a long hiatus, with a new story to tell that hopefully exceeds expectations. If anyone wants to know what's happened, where I've been, where My Blood went, perhaps I'll explain in the notes of the next chapter? Nonetheless, thank you for taking the time to read this new passion project, hopefully it gives you something good! See also: this fic and the title is inspired by the song "Lua" by Bright Eyes!  
> Love, tyler :]

There are only two other boys on the gray, perpetually ugly street, tonight. They're passing a quickly shrinking blunt between themselves, the air thick with the sharp piney smell of it, and it's clearly doing a well enough job shielding them from the cold, considering they aren't practically convulsing with shivers like Virgil is. January in Queens can get a lot worse than this sharp chill, but Virgil's heavier clothes were stolen, leaving him to hours of abrasive wind, beating on him like river to stones. Constantly pushing, slowly eroding. In Virgil's four years in this line of work, January has always been the hardest month. When December rolls around, people are scrambling to get someone under them by whatever means necessary, so they dont have to wake up Christmas morning cold and alone. Which they typically do anyway, because Virgil charges extra to stay the night. The precious few hours of sleep he gets in a man's house is typically heavily disturbed by watching to make sure he doesn't get murdered. Virgil figures that, by January, people who go for men like him are too busy getting back to work to acknowledge the sub zero temperatures giving them hard-core blue balls. The men cure themselves of it by February, though. Valentine's Day is predictably busy. Nothing more romantic than paying for the ass of a filthy street rat.  
If Virgil were friendly, he'd ask for a hit from the two other whores. He's not a big drug fan, gives him crazy anxiety and too many memories, but he needs the mood spike tonight. Except, he's not friendly at all, and even if he was, they wouldn't give him one. The area Virgil typically patrols in search of men willing to stoop so low as to pay for a dirty, asshole-of-society type of guy to try to give him enough pleasure to distract from the disgusting, filthy nature of the act, this area is pretty well dominated by Virgil. He's been here longer than most, and he's got a pretty face despite the dirt clustered on it like a child left out in the rain and he mud. They know who he is and they hate him, because he's got more business. Virgil hates them too. They're nearly as filthy as he is. 

A mercedes slowly rolls around the corner, and Virgil almost thanks the god he despises. Business. Cash. He needs it, desperately. Staying in the shelter is worse than jail. Everyone there is as crazy as he is. 

The car slowly passes in front of them, tinted windows disguising what's inside. Who's inside. It circles around the three boys, a vulture choosing it's prey. Who's the most delectable? Virgil knows it's him. He's skinny, without facial hair, big eyes. Despite his several layers of grime, men know his reputation around here, and he knows he looks fragile. That's what these men want. Someone to hurt. Luckily for Virgil, he's long past pain. And fragility has been replaced with a hard, exoskeleton exterior.  
Eventually, agonizingly slowly, the shiny, perfectly silver-gray car pulls up in front of him. Virgil opens the door quickly, freezing his balls off. He slides into the polished seat, cherishing the new warmth encompassing him like a layer of blankets. Everything about the car is perfect, down to the overpowering scent of cologne. He looks at the man in the driver's seat. Tall, salt and pepper hair, blandly attractive, slightly muscled. The kind of guy who would get better, higher-grade prostitutes if he weren't carefully concealing the fact that he gets prostitutes at all. Male ones, at that. Virgil assumes he's a public figure. Score. He mentally adjusts his rates, the rich pay more. The desperate pay the most. "Two-hundred for an hour, eight-hundred for the night."  
The man looks him over, deciding if Virgil is worth the price. Slowly, he nods and drives off, broad wrinkled hands hanging loosely off the steering wheel like he can't be bothered to hold on. Virgil stares out the window, distancing himself from reality. He slips in and out of it like a corpse floating amongst waves, its head dipping under just for the water to push it back up again. Down, up, down, up.  
It's a long drive, maybe an hour to Virgil's rough estimate. This man is one who goes to great lengths to hide his homosexual endeavors with hookers. He should've asked for a higher price. The man pulls into the garage of a large, white, wooden house, maybe three stories. Massive yard, his neighbors so far away its as though he has none at all. Rich people hoard land like a badge of honor. "Hey look! I have more grass than you, I am therefore vastly superior." Virgil and the man get out of the car, they both know the drill. Virgil's footsteps are quick and deliberate, he's always prepared for a run.

Virgil spaces out whilst following the man up the stairs. He doesn't even glance around at his surroundings. Curiosity is a privilege that Virgil can't afford to indulge in. Not just that, but looking at all the shimmery, rich people items are sure to make his blood boil with anger. It's a deliberate, haughty display for any visitor, a declaration that the owner of this house hoards more money than he could ever need while the world around him rots from the lack of it. He rarely plays much attention to his surroundings on Virgil's appointments. It's better if he doesnt. Not only is it less information for the cops, but Virgil doesn't want to remember. Yet the worst ones always surface, inescapable. He could tear his skull from his neck, nails ripping open the skin, twisting his head off his spine like a bop-it toy and fling it off the Grand Canyon, he'd still remember. There's no rest for the wicked, no escape.  
He can tell the man isn't chatty. The way he holds himself allows no questions, he's rigid, his back a stiff plate giving off the air of impenetrability, his gray-haired arms folded in front of himself in a way that says, I am displeased with you. Superiority. Virgil makes a point to stay quiet, forcing himself to look small and meek. This is a man who gets off on power. He barely winces when the man slams the bedroom door behind them. The bed Virgil turns to is large, covered with fancy gray sheets, next to a large, ornate wooden dresser. Everything screams expensive. That's ideal. It's not a special occasion for a man with money to buy himself something to rut on every now and again, but a poor man who scrapes up enough money to pay for a prostitute is desperate, and he makes the very most out of his time. 

The man takes off his jacket, a sharp blue blazer over a white-striped button-up, tossing it casually to the floor. He probably has a maid to pick it up. He instructs Virgil clearly, almost bored, with the deep and robotic voice of a public speaker, "Take off your shirt." Virgil does so, aware of the man's glances over the scars on his stomach. Two thick, white lines crossing through eachother. X marks the spot, and the spot is where you can jab a knife through Virgil's kidney.  
Virgil forces himself to flutter his eyelashes, pretending to look flustered and nervous. Men like these want blushing little boys to destroy. The better you play the part, the quicker you can get your money and run, as sick to your stomach as it makes you feel. He likes to imagine kicking the ass of men like these, proving he's strong, proving he's not to be looked down upon. The man doesn't even notice Virgil's attempts. He's grateful for that. At least there's no one who cares enough to witness him demeaning himself. The man shoves Virgil harshly back onto the bed, his legs flying up into the air from the unexpected push. Virgil's like a ragdoll in that way, from years and years of skipped meals. He stares at the beige ceiling, waiting for the man to crawl onto him like a squelching maggot feeding on its prey.

Virgil doesn't feel the expected contact, and sits up slightly so he can look around. The man is furiously flailing his thumbs across the screen of his phone. He looks stressed, a jarring contrast to his previous total indifference. There's a noise downstairs, and the man open his bedroom door, about to go to it before turning to Virgil and growling a command. "Don't fucking move." His heart rate spikes so badly Virgil hears it in his ears.

Virgil hears him rush down the stairs as he starts to shake with anxiety. He hears sudden shouting, but can't make out the words. He stays in his spot, dutifully. But the shouting doesn't subside. Virgil eventually scrambles down the stairs, quicker than a mouse with footsteps even lighter than, intent on taking a brief peek to assess the danger. Curiosity can be allowed when money is at stake. He has to know if he should run before things get difficult. He glances around the corner. The man is getting yelled at, or, more like, pleaded with, by a short, round guy with sandy blonde hair. He's a scarecrow run down by a tractor, pancaked. He's crying, his face blood red with terror and eyes bulging out of his sockets like they're trying to escape his skull.  
"Please sir, I didn't know! Sir, please, sir, forgive me!" The new man, Scarecrow, with fear in his eyes befitting the name, falls to his knees, hands clasped together, shaking so violently you might think it's a serious medical comdition overtaking him.  
Only now does Virgil notice the gun held loosely in the man's hand. He points and shoots like it's nothing, the gunshot ringing so violently in Virgil's ears that he spasms and has to clutch the stair-rail not to fall over.  
The very second Virgil's vision clears from initial shock, probably only a quick moment but feels like an hour of wasted, precious time, he tears his eyes away from the blood and brains dripping down the wall, running as quietly as possible back into the familiar bedroom, locking the door behind him. He grips the window sill, it won't budge, not a crack. The glass is relatively thin, though, so, desperate, Virgil slams the lamp from the man's dresser into the window, and then when cracks form across it like a child's kaleidoscope, he shoves his whole body into it, shoulder first, and the window falls appart, shards of glass tumbling down like hail. He launches out the window, knowing the man is coming for him. 

Virgil lands well, his only injury a twisted ankle. As soon as he can stand, which isn't long because he's used to running with injuries, he bolts, blood dripping from his shoulder onto the immaculate lawn he's running across, scrapes and cuts on his hands too with glass poking out comically. Virgil doesn't notice the pain. If he had, he would've welcomed it. Agony is his only friend.

Virgil doesn't even make it to the next house over before a hand clasps over his mouth, an arm around his waist pulling him into the hard, tall body behind him. Virgil's eyes dart around like rats scrambling around a cage, but it's too dark for too see anything that might be of actual use. Virgil struggles, kicking around, but the person restraining him pulls his hands together and he immediately recognizes the cool metal on his wrists. Handcuffs. He's fucked. There's only one thing worse than murderers to cops: male prostitutes. The pig behind him whispers in his ear, "I'm not going to hurt you, it's okay. I'm getting you out of here."  
Oh. So he's not going to jail. He's getting kidnapped. Better, not by much. Virgil thrashes against the person behind him, but they're strong, and barely moves. The assumed police officer half pushes and half pulls him into a car, and then quickly jumps into the front seat and starts driving at speeds Virgil can only assume are illegal.  
Virgil looks at his captor with fuzzy eyes, the distant street lights his only guide. The man is not what he expected. If Virgil had the option to be attracted to people anymore, he'd say the person is his type. Superhero-esque, the kind of guy Virgil fantasized as a teen when he needed saving the most. He's got lightly curled auburn hair, slightly overgrown like an 80s moviestar, tan hispanic skin, and a broad, muscled build without being too overtly showy like a bodybuilder. His hair procures most of the man's face.  
Virgil can see his hands though. They're tense, gripping the steering wheel in a jerky manner, blue lines trailing up under the man's black sleeves, as he's wearing a thick knitted sweater. The man's nails are short, presumably from being bitten at due to the courseness of them. 

In situations such as these, Virgil keeps quiet and takes in his surroundings, calculating a way out. However, it's been a long night, he witnessed a murder, didn't get paid, and got kidnapped (in order of how traumatizing each event was). So Virgil comes up with an articulate way to phrase his concern and understanding of the situation.  
"What the bloody dog-fuck is going on?"


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Sorry this chapter took so long, I've been having a lot of motivation issues and I've been hella busy. Hope you guys like it nonetheless!  
> TW: hostage situation (?), cuts from glass, blood, wounds being cleaned.

Detective work has never been Roman's strong suit. In elementary school, he consumed mystery novels like air and had a deep, passionate love for Nancy Drew (the sexy beast). Thrill and adventure were (and continue to be) the most important parts of his life. But, he was diagnosed with ADHD at age eight, which summarily means he has the attention span of his two year old nephew, often times less than, seeing as Mikey can stare at a fishtank for hours. And, tragically, detective work is all about details, which means he can never be one. Luckily, he's better suited for the next-best thing. He's only had a handfull of cases as a police officer in the past seven or eight months, since he graduated the academy and became an official cop, but they've proved to be more rewarding than he imagined detective work to be (and he imagined it to be fuckin' epic). It's much more action-oriented, hands on, and with Roman's natural affinity for heroism and lack of self control willing him to constantly put himself in mortal terror, it's the perfect job for him. The second-most perfect, maybe. His perfect job, the chaotic good warrior that he is, is vigilante justice in an effort to bring down a man who wronged him and millions of other people. So Roman knows no one else can figuratively dethrone William Baldwin, assumed governor-to-be (assumed, but inactual if Roman has a say in it). Which means he has to play detective for a little bit.

Which leads him to his cramped position now, staked out in his red subaru that's precisely hidden from viewing of onlookers with shadows from the nearby McMansion, but his not technically night vision binoculars giving him full access to view almost everything within forty feet of the house. This isn't the first time he's done this, spent the night staked out, taking notes, watching. It's boring sometimes, painfully, but Roman has enough iced coffee, red bull, five hour energy, and rage to get by. Patton, Roman's older cousin, despises these late nights, which is reasonable considering Roman's in the line of duty and needs to be constantly prepared to risk his life, and yet he typically doesn't sleep for days until he collapses. He's risking his job and life, in order of importance, but Roman knows that in his hundreds of pages of diligent notes (admittedly, mostly doodles), keeping track of everything that goes on outside this house, several nights a week, there's an answer. Even a clue. A solution. And Roman is desperate for just that. 

Tonight is different from any other night. It shouldn't be, it shouldn't affect him, but it does. Badly. Tonight, today, Roman's ex-girlfriend of seven and a half years got married. So he's a little crabby. And he's had half a dozen red bulls. And he's been crying. Kind of hard to be a well-planned, logical, analytical mystery novel detective taking note of every detail, average and suspicious, when he's spent an hour with his head on the steering wheel, red-eyed and wet-cheeked, Adele too-loud on the speakers for effective reconaissance. What-fucking-ever. It's not like he's going to see anything. It's not as if an ingenious political powerhouse would let something incriminating and obvious enough for the likes of Roman, Detective Dunderhead, to catch happening right outside his fucking house. That's probably not even where he does his business. It's too obvious. He probably has a secret lair.

So Roman knocks his head on the window to his left, cursing Cynthia's rotten, back stabbing name and praying for a reason to go back home in which he wouldn't have to spend the night alone in his dark, empty apartment.

And then, out of the of his eye, there's movement. Fast movement. On the left side of the house, a large, dark shadow drops out the window and takes off. 

Roman is out of the car before a second glance.  
As soon as the thing, the person, is in his direct line of sight he's on them, his desperation evident in every movement, he's not letting this chance get away. The person struggles violently, four or five inches shorter than Roman, black hair with purple-dyed fringe, too thin but strong, clearly used to a fight. He gets a glimpse of their round-eyed face, and its clear they're hurt, terrified, and decidedly un-evil. No one can be that pale and doe-eyed and a bastard. It's impossible. Roman is glad he came right after work, so he still has his handcuffs. As he's forcing them on, his hands harshly holding back the person's arms and his shoulder shoved against their back so they cant kick, he feels them shaking so violently it nauseates him. Keep in mind, our poor Roman has had a lot to drink. This isn't a good time to be barfing, not when Baldwin is going to be stopping him from getting away any second, so he whispers, a little too gruffly to be particularly persuading or calming, "I'm not going to hurt you, it's okay. I'm getting you out of here."

He practically tosses the person into the passenger's seat, in too much of a hurry to bother buckling his seatbelt, and driving to safety as fast as he can without immediately crashing his car.

He turns the corner too fast, successfully making it away from the street where Baldwin lives, but escape is going to be more difficult than that. As he rounds their way onto the highway, the person next to him, presumably male, lets out a gasping breath, then asks with scarcely smothered fury, "What the bloody dog-fuck is going on?"

Roman exhales a breathless laugh, paying close attention to the traffic and his heart beating fast enough to make it near impossible to speak as clearly necessary. "Hi, nice to meet you? Sorry about the grabbing you thing." His voice shakes, but Roman's hands are firm on the wheel. He uses the front view mirror to take quick glances at the person's face. He looks around Roman's age, probably younger. Under his eyes is smeary, dirty looking black eyeshadow, giving off a distinct raccoon effect. Like the face of a disney princess, Rapunzel in particular because of the boy's innocent sort of face. Youthful and alight. His gaze travels lower for Roman to realize, for the first time, that the guy is shirtless. In the heat of the moment, he hadn't even noticed. What a great detective. While the guy seems to be calculating his words, dark eyebrows furrowed harshly, as if thinking furiously (which is a great punk-rock band name), Roman stares at his collar bones. 

The guy is on the brink of emaciated at the least. The bones just below his neck are sharp, harsh divets. Crusted slightly with dirt and blood from somewhere, though Roman hasn't the faintest clue where. This guy has a particularly nice clavicle indeed. Something about those bones is just so, awfully pretty, like a Tim Burton character....

...which probably means Roman has overdosed on red bull.

Roman's attention snaps back to the road, swerving the car in the nick of time. The guy glares at Roman in the rearview mirror. "Watch where you're fuckin' going," he mumbles. Then, more clearly, "Yeah, thanks for the apology. It healed my shredded shoulder that you violently manhandled. Thanks man. Super grateful. Anyhow, what the fuck is going on?"

Roman frowns. Maybe the guy isn't evil, but his tone suggests he's a snarky bitch. Great. Just what Roman needs. Roman tries to give him the benefit of the doubt, attempting to make his voice friendly and unthreatening. "I'm sorry about your shoulder, I didn't know you were hurt. I meant it when I said you're safe with me. Name's Roman. You?"  
The guy glares sharply at him, comically wide raccoon eyes now angry little feline slivers. "Don't pull that shit. What's going on?"

Roman could tell him about his true intent and risk the guy being a lackey who will report back to Baldwin. The guy probably has a right to know, being kidnapped and all. Roman could also lie. But what could cover up... this? Roman tries to answer the question without really answering the question. "Well, the man who's house you were in is suspected for some pretty hefty crimes, so I need to know everything that happened. Why were you there?" Roman internally curses at himself for fessing up his own name straight-up. He'll be indentified in no time if this guy gets away and is in fact on the wrong side of the game. So Roman can't let him get away.

"Uh huh, sure, all well and good," Virgil says with a low, deeply sarcastic and pissed off tone that doesn't fit his innocent face, "so then, why are we not in a cop car, and why are you not in uniform, and, oh, pray tell, where the fuck are we going?"

Roman winces, his expression taut and nervous. "Well, I'm not on duty-," Virgil's upper lip curling into a snarl makes him hesitate, "but that's because this case is top secret. There are too many eyes on the inside, so to speak, so I can't let the rest of the force know what I'm doing."  
"Then what the dripping, bloody asshole is the case?" This guy has quite a filthy mouth. Or maybe that's just because of the imminent danger. Maybe he's a total sweetheart when he's not in handcuffs. "I can't tell you everything, because that information can't get out. If it does, I'll be done for, but... I've suspected for a long time that Baldwin has been using extremely illegal methods to make his way into power. I don't have enough evidence to convict him, but you might change that."

The guy doesn't look surprised, his face carrying impressive apathy and disinterest. Roman swallows. "So, what's your name?"  
The guy stares at him for a long second, blankly, as if he didn't hear the question.   
"Is it any of your fucking business?"  
Alright, then.  
"You're forcing me to use ridiculous edgy nicknames to fit your personality, Black Veil Runs-And-Hides."  
Virgil's face scrunches up, not at all getting the reference. "Are you on meth? Have you injected twelve pounds of methamphetamines directly into your bloodstream, you quivering pussy?"  
What a cheery fella! Roman does not like him.  
"No, I'm in law enforcement," "I've seen a cop more righteous than you snort coke off my ass, try again."  
Roman shakes his head violently, glad to nearly be at his apartment. "Okay, uh, nonetheless, the only thing I'm on is seventy-five hours of no sleep. Please, uh, sir, what happened in that house?"

Virgil turns, looking out the window, his arms folded across his chest protectively. If Roman turns to look at him, he can see ribs sticking out from milk colored pale skin, like a skeletal dream. Nightmare? "How do I know you're not just a crazy dickhead, why should I tell you?"  
"Well, what do you have to lose?" Roman tries.  
"You're a cop. I've got everything to lose."

"If you tell me everything you know, I won't let any charges fall against you."  
"I can't trust you, and even if I could, what would be in it for me?"  
Roman takes one look at him and its easy to tell what he wants most.  
"Comfy bed, warm food?"  
Virgil scowls, "Yeah, that's tempting, but bigger, stronger guys than you have tried to lure me into their house with food and a bed." Well that's worrying.

Roman makes a snap decision he assumes he will definitely regret. "I'll give you the key to my room, and you can keep it locked while you sleep. I'll sleep on the couch."  
Virgil bites his chapped bottom lip, a little desperation shining through, then resumes his indifferent expression. "A'ight, I guess, man."

Roman pulls into the lot in front of his apartment building and gets out of the car, then goes to unlock his illegal prisoner's cuffs, and pulls him out of the car, with a deceptively tight grip on his arm. He leads him into the unreasonably tall, old brick building, and into the elevator in the middle of the farthest wall of the very empty little lobby, and smacks a few buttons. "Please don't break my stuff," Roman asks with a joking grin, but Virgil is very serious when he says, "No promises."

Roman's apartment is basically two rooms: kitchen/dining room/living room, and down a hallway so short it really shouldnt be called a hallway, there's a storage closet full of all the shit he can't find a place for anywhere else, and Roman's bedroom, which is connected to the bathroom. Police officer's salary in New York City affords him the finer things in Queens, as you can tell. Not that Roman minds, it's all he needs. Eventually, though, he wants a dog. A big 'un. And a family. And then his dingy little apartment won't cut it. For now, and into the indeterminable future, it's enough to accomadate him, his friends on the rare occasions they come over and play video games or have lunch, and the people he pulls on even rarer occasions. It'll be more home-y once he gets a plant or two.

The boy looks around in the surveying, calculating way he does that borders on judging but is otherwise pure apathy. Roman looks at the dirt smudges on his cheeks, and is about to ask him to take his shoes off when he sees his shoulder. 

Roman has been in the field long enough to know three things:   
1\. How bad the wound is.  
2\. How best to treat it.  
3\. How long you have until it has to be treated.  
He grew up a squeamish kid; his own blood was enough to upset his stomach, but after training and being a first responder for nearly a year, it doesn't phase him. The stark constrast of bright, ugly red on the guy's pale skin, mixed with dirt, trailing down his upper arm from two thick cuts and several smaller ones from tiny pieces of glass is really something to marvel at, in a twisted way. This guy is a walking renaissance painting, "Come to the bathroom, and I'll get you cleaned up, alright? You look like you could use a serious shower. Then we'll talk."  
Virgil clicks his tongue, a dark and thick eyebrow raised like Roman just said something astronomically stupid.   
"A'ight."

Roman leads him into the bathroom and has him sit down on the bathtub/shower's ledge so he can dress his wounds.   
It's not an awful injury, just enough to scar for a while and pour blood that makes it look much worse than it is. Roman disinfects his shoulder and cleans it gently with alcohol wipes and then a warm washrag, on one knee in front of this stranger.   
It's weird being so close to his shaky, naked upper half, almost intimate. From this close Roman can see baby-blue veins, the small bumps around his pale pink nipples, the shadows of his ribs that are just prominant enough to not be healthy. He's got a couple scars here and there, slight discolorations that to someone else would be barely noticable, but Roman can tell it means he's been through some rough shit. Particularly the large, scarred-white "X" across his torso, that is clearly the work of a knife, and the brown-ish colored scar on his hil that looks like it could be a large burn.   
The guy is looking sharply to his left, head turned, and cheeks just flushed enough under all that grime to show he's embarrassed. Feeling vulnerable, probably. Roman hurriedly finishes up.  
"Here's a towel," he hands the guy a light blue, slightly scratchy too-small towel (one of his better ones), "take a bath or shower, or whatever you need. I'll get you some clothes while you're in and make a quick dinner."  
Whiny Boy snorts, unbecomingly, "You're making me dinner? You kidnapped me, but you're my bitch?"  
Roman frowns at him in a childish, "You're not funny, I'm telling mom!" kind of way. "No, more like if i don't feed your skinny-ass, I'm concerned you'll eat me. Keep in mind I'm giving you free stuff, so I'd be polite if I were you."  
"A'ight, bitch, now get out so I can take a shower. I haven't had one in weeks."  
Roman rolls his eyes and leaves, shutting the door slightly too harshly. What a rude houseguest! How dare he not be nice when Roman is sad and tired? Roman wishes Patton were here, he'd get this dumb kid under control. 

Roman heats up two TV dinners, tossing them in he microwave one after the other, then digs out a padlock and key from his junk drawer. He screws it onto the inside of his bedroom door for the grape-headed bitch, fully planning to take it off when he leaves.

Roman hears the water turn off just as he's pulling a bottle of Broadbent Vinho Verde from off the top of his cabinets. Who says good wine can't be cheap? Not that Roman cares how it tastes, as long as he gets shitfaced enough to not think about Cynthia.

Roman pours a glass for himself and considers pouring one for the prisoner, too, but decides against it. He doesn't look nearly healthy enough to accomadate alcohol. Roman sets his glass on the kitchen counter, takes a giant swig of wine straight from the bottle, and grabs a messy stack of clothes for the stranger from off the couch.  
"Hey," he knocks twice on the bathroom door, "clothes."  
The door opens a crack and a skinny, white, skeletal hand slips out like a serpent and snatches them from Roman's hand, then slams the door just as quickly.   
What a charmer. Roman is swooning.  
Roman eats on the couch and Virgil steps out of the bathroom a few minutes later.

Roman looks at him and presses a hand to his mouth, smothering a laugh with a very exaggerated cough.  
"Ha ha. So fucking funny. Fatass," the guy mumbles, folding his arms over his chest in a way that might be meant to look tough and intimidating but gives of the impression of a bratty kid.   
Whiny Emo is probably about five foot eight in comparison to Roman's dashing six foot one, and where Roman has muscle mass from years of work, Virgil has bones, It's quite a sight to see him in a large red and orange hoodie (colors of Roman's favorite basketball team) that shows of all his nonexistent cleavage, and plaid pajama pants that he steps on just enough to be annoying when he walks.   
"Don't be mean, Tiny. It's alright."  
"Shut the hell up. Where's the food?"  
Roman hands him a plate with a TV dinner on it.  
"Gee, thanks," he snarls and sits down on the couch as far away from Roman as possible.  
Roman clears his throat, suddenly feeling awkward. There's a stranger in his house. A bitchy one who he has to interrogate.  
"Okay, so, can you explain to me what you were doing in his house?"

The guy's quiet for a long moment. At first, that's because he's violently shoving food into his mouth like he hasn't eaten in, well, ever, but then he's just chewing and thinking.   
"Y'er not gunna arrest me?" He mutters between chews, warily and suspiciously glaring at Roman from the corner of his eye.  
"Absolutely not. I probably couldn't by now, since the whole hostage situation," he cringes thinking that this is, technically, sort of, maybe a hostage situation.  
"Yeah, a'ight. So, we were just about to batter dip the corndog-,"  
"Wait, what? No, why were you there is.. that a euphemism-,"  
The guy cuts Roman off loudly, "Yes, fucker. I'm a hooker. Streetwalker. Hustler. Now shut up," he glares at Roman, who is shell shocked, "Anyway, so this guy is like 'don't fuckin' move,' and I'm like, 'Haha is he gonna murder me,' so he stops typing on his phone like he's tryna get it off and speedwalks downstairs. Which is funny as fuck, watching a rich, well dressed dude shuffle quickly downstairs but I wasn't amused 'cause I get paid by the hour. Then there's a buncha yelling, right?" He pauses to vore his food mercilessly. "So I go dow'stairth to see whatd'e fuck is happenin'," he swallows, "And the rich guy shoots this poor little dude, just blows his brains out. Which is usually my cue to fuck off. So I go back upstairs and throw myself out the window, which is bloody fucking fun, emphasis on the bloody because my shoulder hurts like a bitch. And then some DUMBASS cop handcuffs me, and I'm like, 'Shit, Imma get axe-murder-raped,' but then-,"  
"Yeah I can figure the rest out," Roman is beaming. He pushes his food aside and shoves his hands in his hair. "This... is exactly what we needed!" He pumps his fist into the air, "Dios mío! Holy.. holy fuck! We have a witness!" He chugs wine from the bottle. "We just need you to testify what you saw when we can figure out who's not corrupt-,"  
"Whoa, whoa, whoa buckaroo. I ain't testifyin' shit. I'm not going to jail."  
Roman's face falls. "No, wait, please. Please. We need this. I need this. He can finally be put away because of this and... and," What then? Would he stay in jail for good?

Roman falls back onto the couch, chugging wine like his life would be at stake if he so much as paused to take a breath of air. "I'm too tired to think about this right now. Logan can figure it out."  
The dude glares at him. "Great. I'm literally passing out, can I go sleep now?"  
Roman frowns. "Yeah, yeah," he fishes in his pocket, "here's the key," he tosses it to the snark monster. "Epic. Leave me alone for like, twenty hours at least." He gets up, walks into the bedroom and slams the door behind him. This guy is gonna break all of Roman's fucking doors.

Roman has work tomorrow, but he figures he might as well call in a sick day to sort everything out. God knows he needs one, anyhow, hostage or no.  
Roman grabs an extra blanket from the storage closet and lies down on his couch, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he sees swirling, drunken patterns behind his eyelids.   
He lays there, still in his uniform, barely covered with a throw blanket, restless with thoughts of owl-eyed angry prostitutes, girls he used to love, and men he can't seem to defeat.  
Hours later, he falls asleep, and dreams of falling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed this one and are excited for more! See y'all next week!


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Virgil meets Roman's cousin and doesn't trust his cheery demeanor. He's terrified of missing out on any possible work but a break with free food and shelter surely can't effect his savings in the long run, right? Roman doesn't want to share his house with a stranger, but he has a life goal of incriminating William Baldwin and will stop at nothing, even if he has to house a hostile witness that may not even have any use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey!! Sorry it's been so long, things are a tad slow going with this fic, huh? Hope you enjoy nonetheless!!  
> \- ty  
> trigger warnings:  
> gay slurs, depiction of intense trauma, puns

Virgil can't force himself to sleep for a long time. Sometimes he can shut his brain off just enough to push his mind into unconsciousness, but sometimes, there are too many thoughts for him to lift. Those are usually the worst days. Virgil isn't the kind of person to be acquainted with pleasant late-night thoughts. He stares at his lightsource in the black room, the radioactive green numbers on the boxy alarm clock just next to the red-sheet clad queen size bed. Virgil has already meticulously searched the quaint little room, from the drawers in the dresser by the bed to under the mattress. What he has found has not given him much useful information (unless the knowledge that Roman prefers boxers to breifs will turn out to be life saving). He has only found a few pictures, presumably of family members and friends, none of which included Roman. A badge, a few pens, and some knick knacks. No blackmail material, tragically. 

Virgil finished going through every single thing in the bathroom and bedroom by two in the morning. He knew, logically, that Roman wouldn't be stupid enough to have anything useful or incriminating in there, but mindless suspicion is Virgil's favorite pass time. And, who knows, maybe he would find something. Roman is definitely PRETTY stupid. After pacing around for a while, trying to think and expel his anxiety, Virgil eventually let himself just lay down and rest for a while. The bed is more comfortable than any he's been in in awhile, and the way his spine creaks says his body needed this. He's a little uncomfortable being surrounded by the smell of this strange man, sweat and old spice and hair spray. It's strong, but the more he focuses on it the less prominent it is. It's hard for Virgil, letting himself rest, but as long as he does extra work tomorrow and maybe makes a few calls on the shelter phone, he can make up for it quick enough. Just this once. He can rest.  
Everything is too much for Virgil sometimes. Superhero kidnappers, government fraud, loneliness, hatred, sometimes, he can't bear it all, so he goes away. He presses his face into the pillow and stills. Dissociation is like any other hobby. It takes people. Virgil didn't know he was doing it the first couple dozen times! The first time he did really hard was probably with his second-ever client. Two years ago, he was seventeen. Compared to now, back then, he was just a kid, resolved to do a bad thing for good reasons. The money the guy offered was three times as much as his first time! Virgil's still desperate for money now, but back then, he was batshit crazy for it. So he let the guy, Alex maybe, burn the skin off his hipbone with a dashboard lighter. The first couple minutes, he had to grip the headboard of the bed he was laying across, hard enough to break the knuckles in his hands. No feeling could compare to the slow precise burn ripping through the skin of his body, melting it. His teeth chattered so hard he had a toothache for weeks. He didn't notice, no, all he could think about was the pure agony slowly spreading over tender skin, trying so hard to get away from it, but being held down, and eventually getting too weak to even move. After maybe fifteen minutes, he just...faded.  
The pain became a dull, ever present hum and the only the only thing resembling a thought resting in his fried brain. Wherever he went, he wasn't in that fucking room anymore. And maybe an hour later, he came back, but he was still so dazed he only realized the guy was fucking him after a couple minutes, and then the pain returned tenfold. When he got back to the hotel room he'd paid for in the morning, he slept for a long, long time, until employees made him leave the building.

Unless something truly devastating is happening, Virgil can't go all the way away like that. But he can still numb everything. And when your life is constant pain, that feels fucking great. 

Virgil eventually falls asleep over the covers, on his stomach. He dreams of the dead man's face, the fear, the tears. Whatever he did, Virgil knows he couldn't have deserved it. The only person who's brains should be blown out are Virgil's. 

He wakes with a killer headache, but he hasn't felt this well rested in a long time. He slowly lifts his hand, added weight, to push the alarm clock over so he can see the screen. Seven in the morning. Almost five hours of sleep. Not worrying that someone's gonna bust through the door (as much as usual, anyways) does a lot for his sleep. Virgil yawns, blinking the crust off his eyes. After a few minutes of angry blinking, he hears a knock at the door.  
Taking his sweet ass time, Virgil goes to unlock it. After the satisfying click, Virgil opens the door to nearly slamming it closed again. In the place of who was assumed to be Roman, is a much less broad, more squishy and freckly, blond version, missing Roman's several inches over Virgil. He's got unsettlingly blue eyes. They make him feel cold. "Who the fuck're you?" Virgil asks, eloquently. Blondie smiles widely at him, a dimpled chipmunk (a mix between Simon, because of the harry potter glasses, and Theodore) with a gap between his two front teeth. Like a little kid. "I'm Patton, Roman's cousin, sorry to startle you!" Patton clearly sees Virgil's apprehensive resting-scowl-face and continues, "I heard the two of you didn't get along great, I'm sorry about that. Yesterday was really hard for him, because of personal reasons, I promise he'll make up for it, and apologize when he gets home." "I don't need his apology, or your pity, ass fuck." The way this guy looks at Virgil, like he's not being bitchy, like he has a right to be upset, makes him all the more upset. Fight back, fucking coward. Patton just winces, "Sorry, I don't mean to he condescending." Before Virgil can tell him to clench his asscheeks before more shit comes out, and god forbid he apologizes again, Patton motions towards the livingkitchenroom. "C'mon, I made pancakes," And the smell suddenly hits Virgil and fuck that's so good, he almost blacks out, "I hope you like blueberries," Patton chuckles, "Who am I kidding? Everbody likes blueberries." Virgil frowns, but follows him nonetheless. Pity food. Gross. Delicious, buttery, syrupy, sweet grossness.   
And then he's shoveling that terrible pity food into his face and moaning like a whore (a different whore, Virgil is quiet). It's really fucking good. Easily the best pancakes he's ever had. To be fair, he can't recall having non-frozen pancakes before, but still, this shit fucking slaps. Patton looks maybe five or six years older than Virgil judging by his stress lines, but he's a better dad than Virgil's absentee old man ever was.  
It's all well and good until Patton starts making food based puns, and Virgil falls in love with him, because who the fuck does that?  
"By all means, I'd be berry upset if you refused seconds."  
"You're too sweet, I can't pan-CAKE it anymore!"  
"Oh wow, careful, don't eat so breakFAST!"  
"Would'ya look at the time, it's getting p-late!"  
"You batter not use up all the syrup!"  
That's right, he's a fucking delight. And it's TERRIBLE. How can you be mean to someone who says your hair makes you look like an "awesome rainbow-unicorn prince" with a straight face? You can't.   
Patton eats his eggs in this animated, scrunched up way that takes Virgil aback, a Loony Toons character in the flesh. The way every part of his body moves drastically with each chew, each word, suggests that he'd probably be all well and good if an anvil fell on him. Patton asks, "Are you going to be alright staying here with Roman? We talked a little and it seemed like there were a few yikes. If there's any issue, you can totally stay at my apartment a few blocks off Hopewell!" Virgil shakes his head, inwardly sobbing in fear at the mere thought of living with this bubbly, attentive, sweet freckled fuck who makes killer pancakes. "Thanks, but, uh, no thanks. I'm not staying. Work." Patton nods, all thoughtful-like, "That's completely valid. But... is there anything we can do to keep you?" The thick frames of Patton's glasses do nothing to shield Virgil from the sheer force of his puppy-dog eyes. "At least for a little while longer?"  
Virgil folds his arms over his chest, his ever-present shield, "I'm not testifyin' for shit." Patton reaches his hand across the table, laying it there, literally and figurativeky reaching out to Virgil. "Roman can be stubborn, but from what I've heard, you're right. There's no way in heck you'll be doing that. But... we need your help in a different way." "With what?" Scary, earnest man. Being all nice and shit. Making Virgil think he's safe. "What you saw in William Baldwin's house, everything. We've been investigating this guy for years, well, Roman has, and every little thing helps us so much. We trust your word and we'll do anything to keep you." Free food and shelter, for the steep price of being a rat. At least, it would be a steep price if he considered politicians people. Still, every hour wasted is money lost. But... without a break, especially with January's low prospects, Virgil is going to asphyxiate himself on a doorknob or something.  
"I'll stay for a week, then I'm off."  
Patton almost attempts to hug him across the table, "Thank you! Thank you so much!" Patton's sky-blue eyes shine with unshed tears but he's grinning, his cheeks must be hurting so badly.  
As if a semi-hostile prostitute holing up in his cousin's house is the best news he's ever heard.   
"Yeah, uh, sure man."  
"If you don't mind me asking, what's your name?" This question always makes Virgil anxious so he rarely gives his name, but after all these idiots are doing for him, he knows its not a danger to give up his first name. Not like they can dig anything up on him from that alone. Probably.  
"It's fine, I guess. Virgil." To be evil, he adds, "Don't tell the cop, though. If I'm stuck here for a week I'm going to need some sort of entertainment. Namely, pissing him off." Patton snickers conspiratorily, "Alrighty, Mr. Virgil," he says as prolonged and dramatically as possibly with a hint of music, "That's an awesome name. Doesn't it mean 'flourishing' in Latin?" Virgil laughs hard enough for his intestines to slip out his mouth from the pressure. "I'd describe myself better as 'floundering'." Patton scrunches his whole face up, chin and nose all wrinkled like a kitten, "You'll be flourishing soon enough. I've got a good feeling about you, kiddo." "Thanks? I guess." Virgil scratches the back of his head letting a shy smile slip. Patton hums, noncommitally. "D'you wanna bake cookies with me? I'm craving chocolate chips." Virgil shrugs, "I guess... um, sure." "Well then come on, dork-o! Have you ever made cookies before?" "Nah, is that chill?" Patton gasps, scandalized, "That has to be fixed! I'll teach you."

Three batches later, Roman arrives to a heavenly smell coming from his apartment and laughter, the latter of which is the first since he moved in. The confusion dawns. He opens his door slowly to the image of his beloved cousin and Road Kill Boy sitting on his newly messy countertop, amidst giggles.  
"Hey, uh... what?"  
Patton slides off the counter with a hop and bear-hugs Roman, then takes the bags of groceries and sets them on the small, circular dining room table made of the fakest of woods. "Hey, Ro! We made cookies, how many do you want?" Virgil snorts, loudly, at how clearly taken aback and frightened Roman looks, probably assuming Virgil did something deeply illegal to his precious cousin. "You seriously BAKED with Para-snore?" Patton lightly smacks his cousin's shoulder. "He's a guest! Be nice Romy!" "Yeah, be nice to me, ass-dandruff." Patton pretends to not be amused by that comment or the way the two idiots are seething at eachother without a hint of subtlety. "Romy, the kiddo's got a couple things he needs for his stay here, can you grab 'em? I'll give you the adress." Roman tugs at the hair on the nape of his neck, slightly damp from sweat after taking the groceries up the stairs (elevator's on the fritz once again), "Kid... kiddo? What?" "He doesn't want me using his real name in front of you," Patton shrugs like its totally not weird. "He told you his name? What? Why doesn't he want me to know?" Virgil rolls his full-moon eyes, "Right here, dude." He slips off the counter, in a slinky, villainous type way. "If you knew it, I wouldn't get to hear your passionately romantic pet names, babe!" Roman's dark beige-brown skin flushes a darker, scarlet color all over, like the top of a Windex Spray bottle. "Patton, are you seriously going along with this?" He does nothing to hide his betrayal. "Yeah, he's a sweet kid Romy!" "You think Voldemort is 'sweet'." "He had his reasons!" Virgil nods with fervor; Voldemort was rather wise in Virgil's eyes when he read the books for the first and only time, age seven. Roman shakes his head, half-laughing. "If anyone can tame the wildcat, it's you, Pat." Roman pulls his hair HARD in one quick jerk. "Ow! Fuck you!" Virgil flips him off with a scheming grin and both hands. "I'm a person, dickface." "A very cruel, heartless person with surprising grip." "Thank you." Patton cuts in, "Roman? Can you grab his things, please?" He sighs, "Yeah, sure thing. Text me the adress." 

Patton and Virgil sit on the couch and play a movie, but Virgil isn't really watching it. He doesn't actually like most if not all movies: they all seem mind-numbingly unrealistic. Patton and Virgil mostly make small talk, and Virgil allows it because of how amused he is by how hard Patton is trying to avoid any topics that could lead to the whole prostitution gig. Finally, Patton makes a slip-up. "Do you live around here?" Virgil rolls his eyes back with purpose. His half-lidded, bemused smirk whisper that Patton is naive and blunderingly stupid without a word being uttered. Patton glances away, his carefree smile finally tightening to something forced with tension. "You sure are nosy, Patton." Virgil cannot wait to get to the thing Patton is most insecure about and bend it into a rage. He wants to see Patton attack him, drop the act. "I wouldn't expect you to figure that I'm quite homeless, perfect little Patton sees nothing but unicorn dicks and faggot rainbows." Virgil's self satisfied smirk is his trademark "I just started a fight" look. Try and hit me and see what happens, he thinks to himself.   
But the only change in Patton's eyes is a little wince, "Please don't use that word around me, it makes me feel pretty uncomfy. I'm awful sorry for assuming, though. That was really inconsiderate," he grins sheepishly. Virgil blinks. "Why are you being so nice?" Patton tilts his head, like this is an expected and frequent question, floppy gold curlys bouncing animatedly. "You look like you could use some kindness."  
"Fuck you, I don't need-," "Virgil, I will not hurt you." 

Silence.

"That doesn't mean I should trust you." "I know, but I'll prove you can. We are good people, we both try really hard to be, even though Ro has it rough right now." Virgil gnaws at his chapped bottom lip, toying with the indentions already there from years of bites and muffled cries. "Whatever. I'm just here to squat." Patton nods, "If you ever need anything, just ask, Virgil." "I don't need anything from you people." He stares at Patton's annoyingly relaxed, chubby little body. This guy hasn't seen the world Virgil has. "Right, I'm sorry. I just mean, if you want anything, I'll always be here."  
Virgil stares at his hands. There's a small scab on the knuckle of his thumb. And he feels like a scab. Tiny, insignificant, just begging to be picked off. Red and angry. A temporary thing. "Okay."  
Patton's eyes wrinkle in the corners when he smiles, and when he makes that face it's always real. How can someone split their face open so often and appear so heartwrenchingly earnest every single time?

Roman comes back to his little apartment in the skies of New York to Virgil and Patton contrastingly silent this time around, watching some terrible movie from the eighties. Roman had looked through the small gray duffel bag he has in tow, which he'd picked up from an employee at the far off homeless shelter Virgil had apparently stayed at. Two bank cards, a hoodie with badly done stitching and purple patches that looked older than Virgil homself, and bigger than too, plus a list of phone numbers. The drive home was a solemn reality check, knowing that all that was more than likely everything Virgil owned.   
He stood and snatched the duffel bag from Roman's hand, slightly scratching him whilst doing so, and sympathizing suddenly became rather hard. Maybe it's this guy's fault he's homeless, perhaps a drug-addicted sex-crazed violent criminal.  
The heavy bags under his twitchy, soullessly glassy eyes that are much to big for his sharp, heart-shaped face said otherwise. Roman's hero instincts would be kicking in double-time if not for the way Virgil's pale upper lip curled at him in distaste. Still, he had promised himself on the car ride home to be as kind as can possibly be afforded to this he-demon. Even if it means sacrificing his diminishing pride. Virgil sat on too of the back part of the couch, like the evil motherfucker he is, whilst Patton stands. "I've got about eight hours to sleep before my shift at iHop tonight, I'll see the two of you tomorrow!" He's so perky, it's foul.

Patton squeezes Roman quickly and waves at Virgil in a bouncy sort of way with an ear-to-ear grin before walking out the door.  
"Alright, it's just you and me then," Roman barely sounds sarcastic, success! "Oh joy." Roman takes a big breath, "So, what would you like for dinner tonight?" "Your castrated ballsack." Roman hums, faking consideration, "Flattered as I am, my ballsack is currently in use." "For what? Exactly which respectable girls would come to this shithole?" "You're here, to be fair." Virgil lays back, with his knees still up and feet on top of the couch, arms behind his head, Roman sits down next to him. "So what you're saying is, the only people you can manage to drag in here are hookers?" "You'd be my first, actually." "Awwwh, I'm so honored."   
Virgil glares at Roman's downward turned profile, he's reading something on his phone. Roman can feel him staring, like lazers, so he keeps his eyes glued to the screen. "Thanks for letting me crash here," he pauses, "Romy," and he almost falls off the couch from laughing so hard. Roman rolls his eyes, smiling but embarrassed. "He started that when we were five. It's cute!" "It's a low-grade stripper name."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u for reading :]

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know your thoughts! I decided to go in hard, hopefully it was all cohesive :]!


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